Another Destination Walk

Last night my fabulous real estate agent Cathy Trifiro invited me and my sister to dinner (both of us have been her clients).  Ever on the lookout for a destination walk, I googled how many miles her house was from my office -- 7.2 miles.  Too many.  I tried out a few more locations, and finally settled on the big HEB on 41st and Red River.  From there to her house was 4.8 miles.  So I parked there, walked from the far northeast corner of the parking lot to the entry off of Red River, figuring that filled in the remaining .2 distance, and started out.

It started out hot and muggy but got cooler and windier as the walk progressed.  It was a VERY simply walk -- north on Red River, west on 45th, north on Shoal Creek.  I was never without a sidewalk, and it's amazing how far I've come in the "It takes a lot to make me self-conscious" game.  I used to feel a little conspicuous when walking on heavily trafficked areas, but with my sunglasses and sneakers on, I just go for it.

We had a fun dinner of wine, salad, bread and grapes and talked about dating (or not dating), shoes, kids, work, hair and mutual friends.  A fun girls' evening in.  And if you're buying or selling, you couldn't ask for a more hardworking, dedicated, honest and screamingly fun realtor than Cathy.

Breakthrough

For the past week or so, I’ve been operating under a cloud.  Not a full-fledged depression, and not a big specific problem that I can identify.  Just a gnawing kind of anxiety, even dread.  It takes the joy out of my walks, and makes everyday problems loom large.  I asked myself:  has my body gotten used to five miles a day, and no longer responds as positively?  Is it chemical?

Yesterday I decided I’d had enough. I brought my shoes and a long-sleeved t-shirt to work, and left the office around 11:30.  It was misting, and I wavered for a moment – the last thing I needed was to get caught in a downpour miles from the office – but decided to forge ahead. I went to Lady Bird Lake, where I walked my usual route, but in the opposite direction.

For most of it, the sun remained hidden, keeping things cool; on the few occasions when it made an appearance, it warmed considerably.  I took full advantage of my Banks-less state and walked hard, harder than I have in a long time.  When I stopped for water, it was two gulps only and then back on the trail.  I don’t remember thinking about much.  When I’d feel myself slowing to the point that I was comfortable, I’d ratchet it up again, passing those in front of me, or keeping pace with a figure in the distance who was really motoring.  I was aware of an almost constant ache in my thighs that comes when I’m really pushing myself.

As I approached the 0 mile mark, I found a couple of stones and left them at the base of the Stevie Ray Vaughn statue.  I got this idea from Kristin Armstrong, one of my favorite bloggers. A marathon runner, she places stones to symbolize the leaving behind of something, and returning home with a lighter load.

I got back to the office sweaty and panting, but I didn’t care.  Something had been left behind, something unidentified but oppressive. I’d like to think it now resides in those stones.

Oscar Sunday

I had a premonition yesterday morning that The Artist was going to win big at the Oscars that night, and as it was one of the few nominated films I hadn’t see, I put off my afternoon walk and took in a matinee.  It was great.  Jean Dujardin was irresistible – French, and he tap dances? – and about halfway into it, I realized I had a smile on my face virtually the whole time. But that put me on a tight schedule to get my walk in, as my sister Lynn, who makes an event of the Oscars, was coming over to watch it with us.  Banks and I took off for our usual St. Edward’s route, but somewhere along St. Edward’s (Drive? Boulevard?) I noticed a trail going through the woods.  How had I missed that?  We got on it, and spent close to an hour on it, lost.  One trail led to another, and when I finally thought I’d found daylight, came up against a 6-foot locked chain link fence. Finally we encountered three St. Ed’s students taking a discreet weed break down by the creek, and they cheerfully pointed us to one of the entrances. 

It was great!  Lots of little hills, jutting tree roots, some stony embankments, a shallow creek to rock-hop over – really more of a hike than a walk.  It was a great find, and I look forward to exploring it more thoroughly in the coming days.

Don’t know if the reviews are in, but I thought the Oscars were great -- loved Billy Crystal, loved the two guys who truly didn’t think they were going to win and had nothing planned, and finally said, Let’s get outta here, loved all the French speeches, and Meryl’s.  Lynn’s dog Maccabee heard a dog bark on one of the commercials, and here he is, searching intently for his canine counterpart.

Split Shift

I had a 10:30 meeting this morning, and woke up too late to walk the whole five miles.  I couldn’t bear to walk out the door and leave Banks behind again, so I compromised.  We walked 2.5 miles through St. Edwards, I dropped him back home, went about my business, and then we resumed the next 2.5 miles through Big Stacy around 5:00. It was a nice change.  Now it’s off to dinner at Brian and Mark’s.  My friends are indulging my recent fascination with Doris Day movies, and on the menu tonight is “The Man Who Knew Too Much.”

Enjoy this beautiful, clear cool weekend.

Confessions of a Knitting School Drop-out

Yesterday I planned on doing my walk over the lunch hour, but a former coworker came by to eat with her old colleagues and of course I preferred eating lunch with Monica over walking five miles in 80+ degrees.  Problem was, I had knitting class after work, and getting home after that would put me close to 9:00 pm, which would be the latest I’d ever started my walk, so I decided to skip class.  Truth be told, my crappy hat was looming large, and maybe I was looking for a way out.  So I walked instead.  Marcy called me afterwards to report that EVERYBODY had knitted crappy hats, that Latifa had made virtually everyone pull out multiple rows and start over again, and that I would have been just fine.  That made me feel a little better, but I stick by my decision:  I am not ready to find out what it feels like to miss my five for the first time.

This morning, I met my friend Brian (yes, she’s a woman whose father wanted a boy) for my long-deferred breakfast at Mi Madres, five miles from my house.  Her workplace is about ½ mile from my house, so she drove me back.  A true “norther” blew in last night, and was still pretty active at 5:15 when I started out.  I got blown about quite a bit, but the real triumph was in crossing I-35 at Dean Keaton without getting flattened by a truck.  As far from relaxing as that walk was, it reminded me, once again, how good it feels to get the thing out of the way in the morning and not have it pressing on you for the rest of the day.

And once again, I came away from breakfast feeling refreshed, affirmed, lifted.  I have always said that Brian (with apologies to my other brilliant friends) is probably my smartest friend.  Mechanical-smart (she and her husband are remodeling their house themselves, INCLUDING PLUMBING AND WIRING), people-smart (great at helping you untangle a relationship problem) and common sense-smart.  And funny.  Any my spiritual sister.  Here we are after breakfast.  The mullet progresses.

Blue

I feel sad today.  I don’t know why, and I’m not much interested in why.  I accept the occasional blue day as the price of living. I also don’t feel the need to snap myself out of it.  When I’m sad, I just want to feel sad until I’m not sad anymore. I would like to say that Banks picked up on my mood, as we walked our usual five-mile loop around the lake this morning.  But he’s a dog, and was on a walk, so no, he didn’t.

When I feel like this, I don’t want to hear the pounding or upbeat music that usually accompanies me on my walk.  I want to hear something that matches and respects my mood.  This past Christmas I downloaded “Hard Candy Christmas” by Dolly Parton, and on this walk, I found myself hitting the replay button over and over again.  The singer has obviously experienced a major loss, and, trying not to sink into self-pity, explores all the different ways she might re-invent herself.  “Maybe I’ll dye my hair….maybe I’ll learn to sew….maybe I’ll buy a car and drive so far they’ll all lose track.”

The voice is tremulous and brave at the same time, and every time I hear it, quick, unexpected tears spring to my eyes. Dolly didn’t write the song, but nobody could have interpreted it like she did. 

Actually – I just thought of this – maybe it was the junk I ate yesterday.  WHY do I feel the need to join in minor celebrations, like Fat Tuesday?  Someone brought sticky buns, and two people baked King’s Cakes.  I sampled them all, and felt sick afterwards.  Two different people wondered if, now that my body has gotten so healthy, it may have lost its tolerance for this kind of sugar explosion.  Intriguing.

Aftermath

Did I run in yesterday’s marathon, or just watch it?  Our walk started out very gingerly.  Usually, whenever I’m sore, it’s a very generalized kind of soreness, or tightness , in my legs.  Today, it was a series of four or five pinprick sites of pain, in the center knee, back of the knee, back of the thigh, and even the lowest of the lower back. What’s that about?  Sympathy pains for the marathoners?  Residual damage from my irregular walk yesterday?  Warning signs of a heart attack?  I kept fantasizing about a massage therapist digging his thumbs into the pressure points.  I convinced myself that, whatever the kinks were, I was working them out with long, fluid strides, and by the end of the five miles, I was feeling a little better.

I was in period piece heaven last night as Downton Abbey ran for four hours straight.  Last night was the season finale, so let me catch you up just so that you’ll be ready for season 3:  Matthew, as I suspected all along, was misdiagnosed; he was actually suffering from a little-known condition called “spinal shock,” and is now walking and fully functioning.  He finally gave up the ghost of his saintly dead fiancée Lavinia, and proposed to Mary, who, in a rare moment free of self-sabotage, accepted.  Lord Grantham recognized the folly of comingling with the serving class, and accepted Jane’s resignation.  Bates was sentenced to hang for murdering his ex-wife, his sentence was commuted to life in prison, and the process of overturning his conviction begins.  Thomas blew his chance at scoring big on the black market, and, newly humbled, has successfully lobbied for the position of Lord Grantham’s valet.  (BTW, the aristocracy pronounces “valet” to rhyme with “mallet.”)  Sybil fled to Ireland and married the family chauffeur; and poor, plain Edith continues her unsuccessful search for love. 

Now let's all settle in and wait for Season 3.